Never Alone
by Kryptaria
Summary: For months, Q pined after a certain secret agent, only to be rebuffed or ignored at every turn. James Bond would flirt with anything and everything that breathed — except for Q. And then, one day, Q meets the newest doctor at MI6, and everything changes. For all of them. Watson/Q/Bond.
1. Chapter 1

Q heard the angry beeping of a computer in distress before he'd even opened the office door. Alarmed, he didn't bother to knock; he entered the office, taking in the situation in one quick glance, noting the telltale blue glow radiating from the monitor. The man behind the desk was prodding at his keyboard as if expecting it to bite, dark blue eyes glaring ferociously at the monitor.

"Please don't," Q said, actually flinching every time another keypress overloaded the buffer and caused another beep.

"Oh, thank god," the man said, mercifully wheeling his executive chair back from the keyboard tray. "Are you from the Help Desk?"

"Not in the least," Q admitted, surprised at how the man's face changed when his glare melted into a relieved smile. Smiling in return, Q said, "I was on the way to collect someone when I heard the distress call. May I?"

"Be my guest." He got up, chair banging into the sideboard behind the desk, startling him. He wheeled around abruptly, with reflexes too sharp for most Medical personnel, making Q wonder. The office had that new carpet smell that implied the man was either a recent promotion or a new hire.

Curious — and honestly happy for the distraction — Q circled around the desk, just as the man backed away from the computer when it let out another petulant beep.

"I didn't touch — Bugger, sorry," he said, bumping a surprisingly solid, strong body into Q. Two inches shorter than Q, cropped dirty blond hair going to grey in spots, a weathered face... God, he was even more handsome close-up, especially when he smiled, as if the smile lit up his whole face from within.

Some tense, tight coil inside Q untwisted as he smiled back, drawn to the man's quiet charisma. This was precisely the soothing antidote he needed to help him find his balance before going to retrieve the wayward, irritating, infuriating 007. "Quite all right," Q assured him, heart starting to pound at the way their eyes stayed locked. "I'm Q. Well, they call me —"

"Oh! The Quartermaster?" the man asked, his smile turning to a delighted grin. "Bloody genius, I've heard, though you look perfectly sane to me."

Maybe Q should have been offended, but he laughed. "Not entirely, but close enough to function in polite society," Q teased.

"That's a relief. And god, obviously _I'm_ the impolite one. Sorry, Doctor John Watson. Please, call me John," he said, reaching out to take Q's hand in a strong, steady handshake that lasted for a deliriously long stretch of seconds that stole Q's breath.

"You're new here," Q said, somewhat stupidly. His fingers twitched in John's small, strong hand.

John nodded, looking up into Q's eyes. "And because I haven't gone through any workplace harassment training, I'm hoping I can get away with asking you out to dinner without getting fired."

Q's heart skipped, and the calmness inside him shattered in a sudden, hot flare of anticipation and interest. Weeks of agonising and self-loathing and uncertainty melted away under the force of John's charismatic, engaging smile. John's open, honest interest felt like sunlight after months of darkness, and Q basked in that warmth.

He tightened his grip on John's hand and lowered his voice. "I won't tell if you won't."

And then he learned, to his delight, that John's laugh was even more beautiful than his smile.

* * *

Q was an hour late to the exam room where Bond was being held captive by a team of doctors who were apparently removing self-inflicted stitches in his left arm to replace them with something other than dental floss. "What have you got for me this time, 007?" Q asked, delighted to feel only the slightest twinge of anxiety (and, yes, lust) as he glanced at Bond's half-naked body.

"You're late," Bond complained.

"Yes, contrary to what you may believe, I do have other priorities," Q said, grinning as he recalled the reaction of the Help Desk tech — Tyler, Taylor, something like that — who'd found the Quartermaster and MI6's newest doctor laughing and flirting over the open computer case as Q unnecessarily checked every fan wire, though he'd long since solved the overheating issue.

Suspicious, Bond narrowed his bright blue eyes and levelled an assessing stare that once would've silenced Q with a queasy combination of desire and nervousness. Now, Q simply met Bond's gaze with a steady, expectant look.

"Well?" Q finally prompted. "You said it was important."

Bond's glare turned petulant — a frankly ridiculous expression for a man of his age and station. He picked up the stainless steel basin that was beside him on the exam table and offered it to Q. "You're welcome."

Q tipped the basin and looked at the small, bloody _thing_ rolling around at the bottom. "You brought me —"

"It's a bullet, Q." Bond frowned, demanding, "Are you all right? You're not ill, are you?"

"Not in the least. Why did you bring me a bullet?"

Bond sighed. "So you can analyse it?" he hinted. "So you can track down the bloody manufacturer and I can go break kneecaps and rip off fingernails until someone tells me who the fuck _purchased_ that lot of ammunition so they could shoot me with the bloody thing."

"You could have called any one of my techs for this," Q scolded, meeting Bond's eyes. His stomach gave a little flip, but it wasn't the usual jittery, helpless, desperate sort of feeling. This time, it came with a certain measure of strength. _Someone_ wanted him, even if that someone wasn't James Bond.

Bond gave him a hurt look. The medics were all being absolutely silent.

Q's guilt was tempered by weeks of rejections in one form or another. James Bond had played dumb, ignoring Q's interest. He'd avoided Q for two straight weeks. He'd pointedly flirted with every single technician, inventory specialist, armourer, and ops coordinator in Q Branch, all the while absolutely ignoring Q himself.

Q gave a forced, cold smile. "I'll have someone send you a report. Welcome back, 007," he said, and turned on his heel and left before Bond could say another word. And though something inside him slowly bled with each step he took, he told himself again that he didn't need James fucking Bond. Not at all.

* * *

John had removed his coat and tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his sleeves were rolled up. As Q walked towards where MI6's newest doctor waited by the doors, he studied John's broad shoulders, wondering what was out of place.

John hadn't been wearing a holster, Q realised. His shirt wasn't even creased. Q wondered if the fact that he noticed such things was a measure of just how pathetically obsessed he'd become. James Bond _always_ wore a concealed weapon. Probably even figured out how to carry a gun in the damned shower — and that image made him burst out laughing.

John turned at the sound, and there was that heart-stopping grin again. "Tell me there's not some bloody giant scorpion on my back or something."

_"What?"_ Q choked out.

"My life before MI6 was a bit strange." John pushed open the door for Q.

"I believe it's customary to say life _after_ MI6 is strange," Q said, skin tingling as he passed close enough to touch, though they didn't. Not yet.

"Oh, this is paradise by comparison. You've no idea. So, where do you want to go?"

Q blinked in surprise, trying to catch his breath as he and John walked out into the choking summer heat. Late afternoon in August was brutal in London. He shrugged out of his own jacket, pleased that John wasn't being a stickler about formality, and asked, "Don't you have a plan?"

"God, no. I'm a soldier. I improvise."

After weeks and months of MI6 operations and missions and _plans_, the thought that John was perfectly willing to improvise was just... delightful. No plan meant no expectations. No expectations meant they were both free to surprise one another.

No bloody fucking plan meant no bitching if something went wrong.

Q folded his coat over his arm and used the motion to cover removing his mobile from his pocket. He thumbed the power button and held it to turn the thing off. "There's a good steakhouse not far," he said, remembering some of the field agents mentioning it.

John gave him a speculative look, his grin turning mischievous. "Do you like Indian? The authentic, spicy stuff?"

"Love it."

John touched his arm, a brush of fingers, quick and subtle; it sent tingles up to Q's shoulder. "Let's get a taxi."

* * *

The restaurant was a dive. The seats were plastic, the table cracked, the serviette dispenser empty.

The food was heaven.

No one behind the counter spoke English, which didn't seem to stop John. He greeted the woman behind the counter cheerfully before telling Q, "I usually just let them bring out whatever they've got prepared. I've never been disappointed."

"I'll trust your judgement," Q agreed.

They ended up sitting side-by-side, sharing little sample plates of everything the kitchen had to offer, washing it down with beer. It was casual and relaxed and Q couldn't even _begin_ to imagine Special Bloody Agent Bond setting foot in the place.

"My first day," Q said, spearing a piece of what he thought was chicken. "I hadn't been there three hours, doing a network audit, and suddenly the bloody building blows up."

"So you took the job straight away," John said, lifting his beer to his lips. He drank, never looking away from Q's eyes, unable to entirely hide a grin.

Q laughed. "Of course I did, once I found out — Oh Christ, I shouldn't be saying this here," he realised, thinking he'd only had one and a half beers. "You're too easy to talk to."

"It's nice to _be_ talked to," John said earnestly. "The last genius —" He shook his head, a flash of sadness darkening his expression.

Q leaned against John's shoulder, nudging at him. "The last genius?" he prompted gently.

John shook his head again, resolutely. He smiled softly at Q, saying, "Sorry. An old friend."

"Oh." Though John hadn't said so, Q heard the loss in his voice. "Were you two..."

To Q's surprise, John laughed. "God no. There wasn't any room for _people_ in his life. He died last year."

"I'm sorry." Q put down his fork, leaving the chicken untouched, and set a hand on John's arm.

John turned, careful not to dislodge Q's hand, and said, "Don't be. He did it to himself. I would have done — _No_. I'm sorry. I'm not —"

"He was important to you," Q interrupted. He thought about asking if 'he did it to himself' meant suicide or drugs or simply living a risky life (_like an agent_, a treacherous voice in Q's head whispered), but he refrained from prying. Instead, he said, "It's all right. Would you like to tell me about him?"

John's laugh sounded surprised and a bit rusty. "No." His hand tightened and he turned sideways on the bench, facing Q. "God, no."

Q licked his lips and watched John's gaze dart down and back up. A little thrill shot through him as he realised that the dark turn of the evening was nothing more than a little bump — that John was still interested, despite the sad memory.

John's free hand moved up over Q's. His thumb swept down, drawing a shivery path over the inside of Q's wrist. His fingers were short and strong and free of calluses. Sparks seemed to snap through the air between them. The anticipation fluttering through Q's stomach was so strong, it was almost painful.

"John?" he asked softly.

"Hm?"

"Will anyone in this restaurant mind if I kiss you?" Q dared to ask.

John's grin chased away the shadow in his eyes. "I might mind if you don't."

Heart pounding with renewed anticipation, Q leaned in, brushing his lips against John's. His mouth was wide and soft, lips chapped from where he'd bitten them, a habit Q had noticed in their short time together. The kiss was easy and gentle, without the rough, driving passion Q had always imagined he would feel when — _if_ — he ever kissed Bond. He felt wanted, needed, not as a conquest but for himself, and something inside him broke free of his own fears and soared.

When he opened his eyes, he felt breathless and dizzy. He leaned his forehead against John's, trying to find words to express himself, but there weren't any. Not for this.

John let out a quiet breath and lifted his hand to brush his fingers gently, almost reverently, over Q's mouth. "God."

Q laughed softly. He swallowed and nodded.

"So, ah... I know it's only been a few hours," John said tentatively, sounding equally breathless, "but would you care to come home with me?"

Any other night, Q would have refused. Before Bond, he had always preferred long, slow relationships full of comfortable dates and the slow, easy delight of holding hands and stealing kisses. He had no interest in casual sex, which made his obsession with Bond that much more peculiar. The man _embodied_ casual sex.

But now, with John, Q knew that _fast_ wouldn't be _casual_. The connection between them felt warm and solid, more like a foundation to be built upon, rather than a searing thread of lust that would flare bright and brittle like the filament in a dying light.

Nervously, not wanting to seem overeager, Q nodded. "I would love to."

* * *

John loved just as Q imagined he would. He undressed Q with care, hands stroking slowly over each bared inch of skin, followed by trailing kisses that left Q's skin tingling. He listened to every gasp, noted every twitch, and kept crawling back up Q's body to kiss his mouth. He was utterly sincere when he whispered, "You're beautiful," in Q's ear.

Not one to particularly concern himself with his body, Q felt as if he were being introduced to his own skin for the very first time. He'd never even imagined that a touch behind his knee could send shocks of electric pleasure through him, or that the slow swipe of a tongue over his abdomen could make his hips buck embarrassingly.

"How?" he asked as he rolled John onto his back solely for the pleasure of feeling that powerful body beneath his own. "How do you know?"

John gave him a baffled look, though his smile was utterly charmed. "Only one of us is the genius here, Q, and it isn't me," he said, combing his fingers through Q's hair.

"Liar," Q accused, and bent to kiss him again.

He took his turn to favour John with the same slow, sweet searching. John wore his scars openly — a gunshot wound, the thin line of a knife-cut, the scars of an active childhood at his knees and elbows — and he didn't flinch when Q kissed them. He was ticklish, letting out a startling, high giggle when Q's breath feathered over the trail of hair down his abdomen. And he was polite, not grabbing for Q's hair to guide him, letting Q sate his curiosity before looking to his own pleasure.

After, they laid together in John's bed, Q's back pressed to John's chest, their bodies fitted as if they'd always been together this way. Q felt warm and safe and _right_, and he knew that there wouldn't be an awkward morning departure, slinking out of the flat as though he'd done something dirty.

"So, can I admit something a bit awkward here?" John asked, speaking into Q's nape.

Tension cut through the pleasant haze that filled Q's body and mind.

John's arm went tight, and he immediately said, "No, nothing bad. Just embarrassing."

Q let out a breath. "Embarrassing?" he asked, voice a bit strained.

"I can't cook. I can barely offer you toast. But if you stay, I'll pop out to the nearest Pret to pick up whatever you want."

There was no way Q could hold back his relieved laugh. He twisted in John's arms and cupped his face to steal another kiss, this one full of wonder. "I thought you were going to say —"

"Married? Not gay? Serial killer?" John asked with a laugh of his own.

"Serial killer?" Q blinked, leaning back a bit to get a clearer view of John's expression. Without his glasses, he had a very limited field of vision.

"Sorry. Remnant of the old life. I... worked with a detective for a while." John put his arm around Q and pulled him close again. "I promise, I'm not a serial killer — though I was a soldier, and I have killed, both in self-defence and in defence of others," he added gravely.

Q put an arm around John's body and wriggled closer, pressing a kiss to the scar beneath his left collarbone. "And you can't cook."

John laughed. "I'm sorry. No."

"I can be persuaded to forgive the lack," Q teased, closing his eyes. John's arms were strong and solid and _real_, holding Q as if he'd be content to stay here for the rest of the night, just like this. "Let me cook dinner for you."

John's smile was delighted. "You can cook?"

"Yes, but I have someone who helps me," Q said gravely.

"A flatmate?"

Q smiled. "Not precisely."


	2. Chapter 2

True to his promise, John snuck out of bed in the early hours and woke Q with hot tea and breakfast croissants. Bleary-eyed and absolutely charmed by John's considerate nature, Q forgot about sleepiness and morning breath and the fact that he _hated_ mornings, and they nearly ended up getting to work late, sharing a taxi back to MI6 while they ate reheated croissants and drank lukewarm tea.

The day flew.

Nothing could ruin Q's mood — not paperwork nor the broken coffee machine nor the inventory computer for the armoury finally giving up and dying in a spectacular cloud of smoke and sparks. Not even Bond, who came prowling around at half four, while Q was shutting down his office.

"You're leaving?" Bond asked, lurking in the office doorway like an unemployed grim reaper. "Since when do you leave before eight?"

"How is that your concern? You're not on a mission," Q said as he powered down his laptop. He disconnected it from the docking station and turned to pick up his backpack. He looked significantly at Bond, whose left arm was in a sling. "You're supposed to be on leave, in fact."

"After action report," Bond explained with a shrug. "You know how M gets when the paperwork is late."

"Yes. Well, good luck with that," Q said, feeling more than a bit smug. He secured his laptop, slung the bag over his shoulder, and walked towards the doorway without feeling a hint of anxiety. Let Bond lurk if he chose. Q had no need to hope for scraps of affection from him, and that knowledge was incredibly freeing.

For all that Bond was an insensitive arse, he was a social creature, able to pick up subtle cues. His eyes narrowed as he backed out of the office ahead of Q, who turned to secure the door. "Why are you in such a rush?"

"I have plans." Q engaged the electronic lock and gave the door handle a push to verify.

Bond looked Q over, saying, "You're in the same clothes as yesterday."

"Well-spotted, 007."

Another time, Q might have felt bad for Bond. Now, he just stood impassively, meeting his eyes, watching as Bond tried to find any other explanation, and failed. "You never made it home last night," he accused somewhat petulantly. "But you weren't _here_."

"Correct on both counts. If you'll excuse me," Q said, finally stepping past him. Over his shoulder, Q called, "Have a pleasant evening, 007."

Then he went to the lift to go meet John upstairs, and he didn't feel guilty at all.

* * *

_"Ow!"_

Q put down the knife and rushed around the kitchen island to where John was sucking on his finger and glaring at the tiny ball of fluff on the stool. "Did she get you? Are you bleeding?"

John took his finger out of his mouth (and Q's mind immediately went to beautifully wicked places). "It'll be fine. She's just... feisty. Or part T-rex." Q took hold of John's wrist and looked at the little puncture wound.

"Oh, this means she likes you. If she didn't, she would've slashed," he said, and looked into John's eyes. Then, slowly, he lifted John's finger to his own mouth and licked, watching as John's expression turned heated.

John licked his lips, and Q bent his head, sucking John's finger into his mouth. "Christ," John breathed, staring at him, entranced. "Please tell me this means you like me, too."

He pulled off with a kiss to John's fingertip and said, honestly, "Perhaps more than I should."

By the time Q got back to cooking, the salad ingredients were no longer cold, the frozen dough had started to thaw, and the butter was melting around the edges. Still, he managed a passable pan-seared salmon with baby spinach and fresh rolls.

John had two helpings, since Q's kitten stole half his salmon when he went to fetch a second bottle of wine from the fridge. By the time they settled on the sofa, sharing a bowl of ice cream and arguing over toppings, Q began to wonder if this wasn't something more than a date.

* * *

John loved the London Museum and the Eye. He felt bad for animals in zoos, liked gardens well enough, and was deathly bored at the National Gallery. He enjoyed theatre — both plays and musicals, couldn't understand opera, and avoided discussion of symphonies. His tastes in music had grounded themselves in late nineties grunge, which Q abhorred, but they found a shared love of classic rock. John introduced Q to American Southern rock, and Q introduced John to trip-hop one night while they made love on the floor of Q's living room with the balcony door open to let in the hot summer wind.

For Q, memorising John was like discovering a new world under his own skin. Where once he'd lived for work — spending hours and days and weekends in the office — John helped him remember that there was more to life than the power of a keyboard.

By the time September rolled into October, Q was guiding Bond through a covert mission in New Delhi, and he was buzzing, high from John's hesitant words that morning, before they'd left Q's apartment: _I think I love you_.

"The cameras are turning now," Q said into his comms. His stomach was twisted in knots. He hadn't said it back to John. He'd tried, but John had silenced him, telling him to wait until the time was right — not to let John's decision pressure him. But really, he'd been thinking it for some time, agonising over it. Was it too soon? Would John be frightened off by the idea of such a commitment? Did John actually want a relationship?

Now that he had the answer, he _wanted_ to say it back, but he didn't want John to think he was being pressured. Should he wait until tonight? Tomorrow? A week? God, how did people do this?

"Just say when," Bond said in his earpiece.

Q laughed a bit desperately.

Bond's voice cut through the laugh, silky smooth — a tone that still made Q's knees go weak. "Something amusing, Q?"

With a guilty flinch, Q said, "Negative, 007. You're clear to move in... four, three, two, _now_."

"Acknowledged," Bond said, already running, footsteps audible in the background.

Q leaned on his workdesk, thinking he should just... sit John down and tell him everything. Everything he'd been thinking and feeling. John respected honesty.

"Checkpoint," Bond said.

"Monitoring next set of cameras. Please hold," Q said, and switched his display. He watched through the stolen feeds, thinking that if he were anyone else — if he were any less careful — he would've just seized control of the enemy facility's whole security system and let Bond have his frontal assault. But Q knew Bond's survival odds were almost perfect _this_ way, and as much as he'd found love with John, Bond was still...

Q sighed.

"Am I boring you?" Bond asked wryly.

"Bugger," Q muttered. "Negative, 007."

All humour was gone from Bond's voice as he asked, "Are you all right there, Q? You're not yourself."

Absently timing the three cameras, looking for the next window of opportunity, Q answered, "I'm fine. More than fine. Everything's fine."

"Is someone there with you?" Bond asked suspiciously.

"What?" Q actually was distracted enough that he looked around. Then he frowned back at the computers and resumed timing the cameras. "No. Sorry. Still timing the cameras. Please hold."

"Q, talk to me. What's wrong?" Bond asked. And damn the man, for the first time _ever_, he actually sounded worried for Q's well-being.

Q huffed and finally gave in, realising his concentration was completely broken. He pulled up a couple of stopwatch apps and waited for the right moment to click each one. "It's nothing."

"Q."

Irritated, Q said, "I met someone. We've... been dating for a while."

"Congratulations," Bond said stiffly. "Who is she?"

"He. He's actually from —"

_"He?"_ Bond interrupted.

"Yes, he," Q snapped, sudden heat filling his voice. "Will that be a problem, 007?"

For once, Bond went silent, and Q's anger flared. He drew breath, only to be cut off by Bond saying, "No. That's just — I was told — something else."

Q's chest went tight, and he gripped the edge of his workstation. "Say again, 007?" he prompted, closing his eyes. Because that implied that Bond had _asked_ about Q, and that someone had told him...

"Nothing," Bond said tightly. "Camera status?"

"Bond —"

"Camera status, Q?" Bond demanded sharply.

Q looked back at the cameras. "Timing them now," he said quietly, wishing he didn't feel quite so guilty about being happy.

* * *

For once in Q's life, he didn't bring computers into his relationship — not with John. He could have learned everything about the man in minutes, from his blood type to his grades to his entire military history. But he didn't. He discovered John in small snapshots, glimpsing his family life in a drunken phone call from his sister, his military service in an evening spent at the pub with some of Captain Watson's mates, and his life with his 'old friend', Sherlock Holmes, when he helped John to pack up his flat and found a scrapbook.

"Did you love him?" Q asked, though the question was unnecessary. He could see it in every carefully preserved news article and scrap of unfamiliar, scrawling handwriting. He could see it in the magpie treasures in the box beneath the scrapbook — a hat, a little plastic magnifying lens, a huge metal microscope.

John came over to the box and put his hands on Q's shoulders, standing as if using Q to shield himself from the memories contained in cardboard and dust. "I never let myself acknowledge it while he was alive," he said slowly, "but yes. I think I did."

Q put down the scrapbook and reached up to cover John's hands with his own. "He died, you said."

John's hands tightened, bordering on pain; he was surprisingly strong, for someone so gentle. "He stepped off a roof," he said tightly. "He made me watch."

"Oh, god," Q whispered, almost tipping over his chair in his haste to get up. "I'm so sorry."

John allowed Q to pull him close. "No, it's — He wasn't..." He laughed bitterly and pressed his face to Q's chest for a moment. "He wasn't very stable, in the end. He was under a great deal of pressure — accusations of criminal involvement... Do you remember the scandal at the Met?"

"Fraudulent investigations, wasn't it? More than two dozen criminal retrials?" Q remembered.

"That was because of him."

Startled, Q said, "But you worked with him, and you're at MI6 —"

"I was cleared." John sighed and rested his head against Q's shoulder. "His brother's in the government. He — I don't know how, but he got me the job at MI6." He laughed and said, "When he asked if I wanted to work for Secret Intelligence, I thought he meant as a field operative, not a doctor."

Q's arms tightened as he thought of all the nights he'd spent worried sick that Bond would be hurt. He still did; somewhere inside, even now, he was still aware that Bond was thousands of kilometres away. "Would you resent it if I said I'm glad you're not?"

John laughed softly and shook his head. "No. Not at all, love."

With a quiet sigh, Q turned and pressed a kiss to John's short hair. They'd spent nearly every weekend walking, and they'd even driven down to the beach a few times. The sun brought out gold highlights in John's hair, just as it did in Bond's. Q remembered when he'd look forward to Bond returning from a tropical destination, skin tanned, hair bleached.

"He never knew," John said quietly.

Q wrenched his thoughts back. "What?"

"Sherlock. He never knew. So bloody brilliant, and he never knew what was right under his nose."

"He didn't know you loved him," Q translated.

John shook his head. "He had no idea. Sometimes..." He sighed and pulled Q away from the table where he'd been sorting through boxes. He sat down on the old, creaky sofa and tugged Q down beside him. "I finally went to his grave and told him. My therapist said it would bring closure. All it did was make me feel like a right arse for not telling him sooner."

Guiltily, Q twisted on the sofa to lean against John. "Do you still?"

John put an arm around Q's shoulders, and then leaned down to scoop up his legs, settling them across his lap. "I don't rightly know," he admitted. "When he was alive, half the time I wanted to strangle him. Now that he's gone..." He sighed and hugged Q close. "I suppose I still do. I'm bloody furious with him, but you can hate someone and love them at the same time."

Q closed his eyes, feeling as if his heart were bleeding from his chest.

"Q?" John asked, his voice gentle.

He shook his head, unable to answer, thinking of all that time he'd _wasted_ pining after Bond, all due to a misunderstanding. And yet... what if Bond had said something? What if Q had made an advance and Bond had _responded_? What if, in some other universe, they were together, deliriously happy, and Q had never met John? Or had become nothing more than friends with him?

"Q?" John repeated. He lifted his hand to Q's face and tried to meet his eyes. "Who is it?"

Q flinched at the thought of telling John — of _hurting_ John that way. He closed his eyes again, this time holding back tears, and shook his head.

"It's all right, love. Tell me."

Q expected anger. Jealousy. Possessiveness. But John's kindness and understanding slipped right past his defences, and the words came out before he was even aware he was speaking: "James Bond. Agent 007."

John let out a sigh and held Q close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "God, you poor thing. I've heard the stories."

"He's a nightmare," Q sighed, resting his head against John's shoulder. "A bloody menace."

John laughed sadly. "So was Sherlock, love."

Q reached down for the hand resting on his legs. He laced their fingers together without looking up. "I love _you_, John."

"I know," John said simply.

Abruptly, Q lifted his head, realising that _this_ was the first time he'd come right out and said it. "Oh god. That's not very romantic, is it? Telling you right after confessing I'm still in love with Bond."

"If I wanted romance, I'd be watching crap evening telly." John twisted so he could pull Q into a slow, soft kiss. "I'll take honesty over romance any day, Q. And it's possible to love two people at once. Love isn't a finite thing."

"No. But I never actually want to shoot you."

John smiled, eyes lighting up. "And you do, him?"

"You have no idea," Q said with a sigh.

John kissed him again. "How about I do it for you?" he offered.

"You're not upset?"

Gently, John tipped up Q's face and brushed across his damp eyelashes. "I'm not upset. You still love me, right?"

"God, yes."

"And you still want me to move in with you."

"Yes. More than anything."

"And you're here with me, in my arms." John tightened his arm around Q's shoulders.

"There is nowhere _in the world_ I'd rather be," Q said honestly.

"Then no. I'm not upset." John brushed a finger over Q's lips as he added, "But there is something you should consider."

"Other than shooting him?"

"Oh, no. Keep that as a backup plan." John grinned, though the expression quickly softened into gentle concern. "I think you should tell him."

* * *

Though it seemed like the Double O's were always out in the field, their assignments were supposedly managed to keep them home at least sixty-five per cent of the time, based on a decade-long psych study from back in the seventies. In truth, they usually managed to push their field-time closer to fifty per cent, but even that meant they were home half the time. So each of them had an office up on the fourth floor — tiny, yes, and inconveniently located, but there all the same.

Heart in his throat, Q stood outside door 4191 and told himself not to panic. He thought about John's gentle understanding, about the pain of his unspoken love for his lost friend, and tears stung his eyes again at the thought that Bond might never know. Not that someone as strong as James Bond would take his own life, but he was a field agent — an assassin — in a profession where nine out of ten agents didn't survive to retirement age. He was brave and talented and utterly reckless when it came to serving queen and country.

Q knocked, suddenly overcome with the irrational fear that Bond wouldn't be there. That he would've been sent out on a last-minute mission, and Q would have lost his last chance. He knocked loudly, knuckles stinging, and gasped when the door opened just a few seconds later.

To anyone else, Bond's expression would have looked utterly bland. Q, though, had watched Bond — studied him, even — and saw the flicker of curiosity, wariness, and something that might have been concern, there and hidden in an instant.

"Quartermaster?"

"I — May we speak a moment, 007?" Q asked, taking refuge in formality.

A muscle twitched over Bond's jaw. He nodded and stepped back, retreating to his desk chair. The desk was shoved up against the side wall, with a single guest chair at the corner.

Nervously, Q closed the door and resisted the temptation to lean back against it. Instead, he took the two steps to the desk and sat on the edge of the guest chair, clasping his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting. A part of him wanted to blurt out his feelings on the spot, to set off the explosion and allow Bond to deal with the aftermath as he did so well, but that wasn't his way. Q was normally the personification of proper reserved behaviour, etiquette and civility wrapped in an unassuming package that hid a knife-sharp genius and a startling lack of modesty.

So instead, feeling his way across the words as if navigating the dangerous, icy surface of a pond, Q said, "I believe we should... clear up this... misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" Bond asked, and Q felt as though a crack appeared in the ice underfoot.

Q swallowed and resisted the impulse to look away from fierce, icy blue eyes. "I'm gay. Well, I'm not gay. I'm —"

"Confused?" Bond asked, and though his voice was flat, there was a hint of humour there.

Clinging to that tiny promise that Bond wasn't enraged, Q gave him an apologetic smile. "I don't know who told you otherwise. I'm — I'm sorry, though. It must be because I had a girlfriend when I came to MI6."

"It's —"

"Please, let me finish," Q interrupted, knowing that if Bond gave him a polite means to escape, he might well take it. God, it was awful, but he actually wished for John to be here, both to soothe his fear that this _wasn't_ all right and to simply lend the quiet, solid support of his presence.

Frowning in puzzlement, Bond nodded, turning his chair a bit more to face Q.

"If you'd known, would you —" he began, and then shook his head. He couldn't push the responsibility onto Bond.

"Q?"

He took a deep breath. "I —" He faltered, feeling as if the ground before his feet had suddenly opened into a pit too wide to jump and too deep to survive. Ridiculously, he remembered an Indiana Jones film from his childhood — the scene when Indy stepped out into the chasm as a test of faith, only to be saved by a bridge hidden through an optical illusion.

Hoping that he would find the very same bridge — hoping he didn't fall and lose everything — Q met Bond's eyes again and said, "I love you."

* * *

At Q's suggestion, they were supposed to meet at a restaurant, in neutral territory. But one of the armoury technicians had gone into sudden labour, and since MI6 had no midwife on staff, John had stayed to help her through the unexpected early delivery, leaving Q to entertain Bond for two nerve-wracking hours, from dinner to drinks at the flat.

When John finally came home, Q was able to introduce them: "James Bond, John Watson."

"I'm so sorry," John apologised, shaking Bond's hand without hesitation. "It was an adorable little girl, by the way. Apparently there's a card going around, and a betting pool on the name."

"Kiah Walker's baby?" Bond asked, wearing his most charming smile. "Christ, she'll be gorgeous."

"I'm just glad she did most of the work. I wasn't exactly called on to deliver many babies in Afghanistan."

"Yes, Q mentioned that," Bond said.

Q squeezed John's hand, grateful that things seemed to be going well, and said, "Go sit. I'll get you a drink."

"Thanks, love. Did you want anything, James? God, do we even have any food?" he asked Q.

"I'm fine," Bond answered.

"We skipped ahead with dinner," Q answered. "I got you your favourite ribs."

John smiled gratefully. "I'll reheat them —"

"I've got it," Q interrupted. "Go sit down."

He was nervous about leaving them alone together, but it had to happen sooner or later. Better it happen here and now, in the comfort of their flat, rather than Bond cornering John at MI6.

So he listened to the low murmur of their voices as he reheated the takeaway container of ribs. The steamed broccoli was a bit mushy, but the ribs weren't too bad. He poured a glass of Argentinian Syrah, picked up a stack of serviettes, and brought everything out to the living room.

"Thanks, love. You didn't tell me he was with the SBS," John scolded as he took the plate and glass. He was in his usual armchair, with Bond back at the corner of the sofa he'd claimed earlier.

Q curled up in the other corner, and the kitten jumped back up into his lap where she'd been before John's arrival. She dug claws into his trousers to show her displeasure at being set on the floor. "Well, I knew you were both in Afghanistan at some point."

"The _same_ point, as it turns out," Bond said, flashing a grin at John.

"And _you're_ a bloody nightmare, if that bomb really was you," John fired back at him with a grin of his own. "Not exactly subtle, are you?"

"'Covert' is often a guideline, not a reg," Bond countered.

Q laughed, elated that they seemed to be getting on just fine. He leaned over, careful not to dislodge the kitten, and picked up his glass of wine. "Even people who have no idea what you do for MI6 know that you have a very loose interpretation of regulations, James. Your expense reports are legendary in Accounting."

"I have a reputation to maintain," Bond said with false innocence.

"Bloody nightmare," John repeated, amused, and Bond burst out laughing.

Q looked down at the kitten to hide his elated grin.

* * *

"I like him," John said, meeting Q's eyes in the mirror.

Caught mid-toothbrushing, Q raised a questioning eyebrow.

"James." John turned to dry his hands on a towel. "I like him. I can see why _you_ like him."

Surprised, Q spat and rinsed and put away his toothbrush, studying the reflection of John's shoulders. He couldn't see a hint of tension, which was a relief. "I love you."

"You don't have to reassure me." John turned back and wrapped his arms around Q's waist, raising up on his toes to rest his chin on Q's shoulder. "You're here with me, aren't you?"

Q covered John's arms with his own and looked into his reflected eyes. "Is it too soon to say 'always'?"

John grinned. "God, how did I get to be so lucky?" he asked, ducking his head to kiss Q's shoulder.

Twisting in John's arms, Q leaned back against the sink, ignoring the damp spots against his bare skin. He spread his legs to pull John close, loving the feel of his strong body. "Thank you. For tonight. For encouraging me to tell him the truth."

"Feel better, then?" John asked gently.

"I do."

John grinned and pressed his hips forward. "Care to show me how much better?"

Q spread his legs a bit more to inch down, bringing John's collarbone in reach. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the very edge of his scar and felt John shudder.

"I'd love to."


	3. Chapter 3

"It's just a test of the programming," Q said, waving his free hand at the fresh bowl of powdered chalk. "I need sufficient error correction for field circumstances without compromising the —"

"He's giving details again," John said, glancing across the dining table at Bond.

"Can't you keep him quiet?" Bond challenged as he scooped up some of the chalk and rubbed it over his hands.

Grinning, John put a hand on Q's nape and pulled him close for a kiss. Q's muffled not-so-sincere protest turned into a yelp as the cat — unhappy at finding she was no longer the centre of attention — sank her teeth into his thumb. "Ow!"

"Medic." Bond laughed and reached for the cat, scattering chalk all over the guns and components. "Give her here."

"You'll get her all dusty," Q protested, trying to transfer the angry cat to his unharmed hand.

"Yes, because she _never_ gets dusty, dirty, covered with potting soil — the incident with the bag of sugar..." John said, extracting the cat from Q's hand. He dumped her in Bond's cupped hands, and she immediately started purring like an out-of-tune transmission, the little traitoress.

"Poor girl," Bond said, lifting her to his chest. He wasn't met with claws or fangs or even a hiss; she put her paws on his throat — bloodlessly — and butted her head into his chin.

"He's subverting our cat," Q complained as John took his injured hand to look at the puncture wounds.

"That seems his style," John agreed. He rubbed gently at the wound and said, "I think you'll live. Want a plaster?"

"No." Q glared at Bond and the cat, earning a rather smug smirk that made his breath catch just a bit. "If we can get back to the task at hand?" he prompted.

"Here, you take her," Bond said, offering the cat to John.

"Only if you both swear not to stitch me up if she gets me somewhere vital," John said, taking her carefully. He pointed at Bond and added, "Especially not you. There are photos of your stitching in the break room, you know."

"Not all of us can have our own pet doctor," Bond said, shooting Q another smirk before he reapplied the chalk to his hands. "I'll have to settle for a pet technician."

"Be glad I'm willing to share," John said, fixing Bond with a mock-glare.

Q's breath hitched at the way Bond's look turned momentarily heated, and suddenly the word _share_ took on meanings Q had never allowed himself to imagine. Hastily, he looked down and picked up one of the circuit mock-ups, which he promptly fumbled and dropped again.

"I believe I'm supposed to test it _before_ you break it," Bond said, reaching over with one dusty white hand to pick up the sensor prototype.

Q knew he was blushing, but there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He yanked at the wires trailing from the circuit, picked up his multimeter, and started reading off numbers.

"Bugger," John said, switching the cat to his free hand. He picked up his pencil and leaned down to start writing, only to end up with claws in his hand. Startled, he poured five pounds of angry cat onto the dining table, where she immediately went for the multimeter wires. Her tiny paws scattered the mock-ups of weapon grips that Q had so carefully built, sending them flying onto the dining room floor.

"No!" Q yelped, dropping the multimeter to catch the cat before she could follow everything off the edge of the polished table. With a hiss like a blacksmith quenching a sword, she landed in his hands, claws out.

Bond rescued him, coughing with the effort to restrain his laughter over John's apologies and Q's vicious cursing in Pashto. Extracting the cat from Q's newly wounded palms, Bond scolded, "Language, Quartermaster. Are you the bad influence on him, John?"

"He's learned most of my bad habits," John said, taking hold of Q's scored hands. "Come on, love. Let's run these under cold water."

* * *

"Your cat's a national hazard," Bond accused, twisting to look over his shoulder at the cat in question. She was sprawled half on his shoulder and half on the sofa cushion, head and front paws hanging down his chest, dead asleep.

"She's sweet," Q said, despite the plasters covering his hands. "Red wire next, love?"

"Right," John answered, switching the multimeter probe to the red lead. "Looks like a hair over eighteen."

"It's digital," Q complained, wincing as he picked up his glass. How such tiny claws had managed to get him _everywhere_, he had no idea. He took a fair swallow of whisky, having long since stopped bothering to sip at it, since it hurt too much to hold the glass for long. It seemed more efficient to just drink. He put the glass down and said, "It's digital for a _reason_."

"Fine. Point one. Does the point-one even count?"

"It's a tenth of a millivolt!"

"That's a no for most people," Bond murmured to John.

"I would kick you, but it would upset the cat," Q said, and settled for prodding at Bond's leg. With Bond sitting on the floor, legs stretched out under the coffee table, it was Q's easiest target.

"God, don't do that," John said. "If she wakes up startled, she'll rip off half his face."

"Do you hear how they talk about you, sweetheart?" Bond asked, working a finger under the cat's chin. He lifted a quarter-inch, and when he let go, her head just flopped back down. When she landed, she started snoring. "Is that normal?"

"She's perfectly healthy," John assured him.

"You're not a veterinarian," Q pointed out. "Besides, she's always snored. It's endearing."

"It's bloody loud," Bond said.

"What's the next wire, Q?" John asked.

"What? Oh, we're done," he answered after a moment's consideration. "Red, black, green, blue, left and right, with and without chalk?"

"How many should that be?" John picked up the notebook, frowning.

"Um..." Q closed his eyes, trying to remember the configuration of the data table he'd built, only everything was a bit fuzzy. He probably should've waited on the third glass of whisky.

"Sixteen," Bond said.

Q blinked at him. "I didn't know you could do maths!"

Bond's brows shot up. "You —"

"You're drunk, love," John said, reaching out to take away Q's glass.

"I'm not," Q protested, even though he _knew_ that was a drunken sort of thing to say. "But really, no one expects you to have actually taken _maths_, James."

"You have no tolerance for good whisky, do you?" Bond asked.

Q glared at him and pulled his legs up onto the sofa. When John had moved in, he'd brought an old Union Jack pillow that Q had promptly claimed. He hugged it to his chest as he sank down a little, until his shoulder was resting against the arm of the sofa. He kept a careful six-inch distance between his vulnerable bare toes and the cat.

"It's the bad whisky we have to watch out for," John said as he coiled up the multimeter leads. "Sorry you seem to have wasted your day off."

"I wouldn't call this a waste," Bond said, throwing a grin Q's way. "I've never been witness to a cat terrorising two ex-Special Forces and a genius before. I think we should bring her to the office, maybe for the next executive-branch meeting."

Q choked out a laugh. "Oh, no. You two don't have to actually _attend_ those things. I do. I'd be caught."

"I'm an assassin. I'm fully capable of infiltrating a cat into a secure environment."

"Smuggling," John corrected.

Bond nodded. "Right. Smuggling a cat."

Q buried his face against the pillow. "Next you'll say you use them for gambling currency."

"What?" John asked.

"He cheats at cards! Of course he'd cheat at kitten poker, too," Q said, pointing at Bond. "You wouldn't believe the things I've heard him do. I should download some of the audio files."

"Careful," Bond advised. "John's not the only bad influence here."

"Kitten poker?" John asked.

"No idea."

"Both of you are awful people," Q declared, sitting up enough to hold out one bandaged hand. "Remote, 007."

"I'm not certain you're in any shape to be operating complicated technological equipment," Bond protested.

"Well, I certainly can't. It's got more bloody buttons than a submarine," John said, picking up the media centre remote. He brought it over to Q, saying, "Budge over." As soon as John sat down in the corner, Q dropped the pillow on his lap and curled up, aiming the remote at the telly.

"I'm qualified on submarines," Bond said.

"None of you people are qualified for my media system," Q insisted. Drunk or not, he knew how to open the right device menus and access his stored files. It was only another minute before the opening scene of _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ appeared on the telly that had taken up most of his budget the very first month after he'd been promoted to Quartermaster.

"Are you... suggesting we watch an American sitcom?" Bond asked Q in mild horror.

"No," he quipped. "It's a documentary."

"About vampires?"

"Yes. Now do be quiet, 007. This first bit establishes the mythos."

* * *

Q woke up to the very fuzzy sight of dark blue eyes watching him and the sound of screaming teenage girls. It would have been alarming if a part of his mind couldn't picture the precise scene.

"Still season one?" he asked, looking up at John.

John nodded, brushing a hand through Q's hair. "Feel better? We lost you for a while there."

Q closed his eyes, taking stock of his condition. His hands stung and he was hungry, but he felt surprisingly well-rested. Not hung-over in the least, which was nice, given that he recalled being very intent on drinking whisky.

"I'm fine. What's for dinner?" he asked, twisting to roll over onto his back.

"Since neither of us has been able to get up, no one's decided," said a voice that was most definitely _not_ John.

Startled, Q lifted his head and blinked at Bond, who was sprawled at the other end of the couch, Q's bare feet resting in his lap.

For once, Q's intellect entirely failed him. He tore his eyes from Bond and looked back at John, braced for... he didn't know what. Anger. Hurt. Resentment.

He wasn't prepared for amusement.

"I can call for a pizza if —"

"Two," Bond interrupted.

John threw a grin at him. "Two pizzas," he continued, "if you let me get up."

"I can get it," Q insisted, thinking it the perfect excuse. He could move his feet off Bond's lap and they could all have an easier time of pretending this hadn't happened.

"I'll get it," Bond offered. "There's a cat roaming free out there, and she seems to like me."

Good enough. Q tried to act casual about pulling his feet away, curling up to pointedly snuggle closer to John, though he didn't seem to need any reassurance from Q. Bond got up, pausing the show.

"Menu's in the kitchen, last drawer on the left," John said. He ruffled at Q's hair, saying, "This one likes his pizza plain. I'm good with whatever."

"Very accommodating of you," Bond said, and something in his voice made Q twist to look at him, but he'd already turned his back to go for the kitchen.

Q turned back, looking worriedly up at John. "I'm sorry. I didn't —"

"It's fine, love." John leaned down a bit awkwardly to kiss him. "I know how little you've been sleeping since you pulled those readers out of field issue. You'll solve the problem."

"I _have_ solved it, I think." Q shifted to get a better angle to see John's face. "I meant for falling asleep on you. _Both_ of you."

"Ah. That," John said, nodding. He moved his hand to Q's chest. "We should —"

"I won't —"

John smiled. "It's fine."

"You said that before"

John shook his head. "I like him," he said quietly.

Q propped up on his elbow. "The way you just said that... means something."

"It means I like him." John shrugged, smiling. "He reminds me of some of my army mates. Like Bill."

"Bill —" Q began, before he felt his eyes widen. "Corporal Murray?" he asked, naming John's on-and-off boyfriend from Camp Bastion.

"Mmm. Though James is much nicer to look at."

The idea that crept into Q's mind was absolutely inappropriate. There was no way he would _ever_ suggest it, even if it turned his blood to liquid fire and made him forget how to think and speak and breathe.

John slid his hand up from Q's chest to his hair. He cupped the back of Q's head and held him still for a kiss that did nothing to help Q's state of mind. When it ended, leaving Q tingling all the way down to his fingertips and toes, John quietly said, "I love you."

"I —"

"Not done here," John scolded with another quick kiss. "I love you, and if you're the only person in my arms for the rest of my life, I'll die happy. But if you also wanted James —"

"Oh, god," Q said, his voice tight.

"— that's all right, too"

Q twisted to get his arms around John, burying his face against his shoulder. "No. God, no. I couldn't cheat —"

"I wasn't — Oh, no, love," John protested, holding him. "No, no. I know you wouldn't."

"Then —"

"But it wouldn't be cheating if I was there, too, would it?"

* * *

The pizza place wasn't the nearest or the cheapest, but it was Q's favourite. The crust was always perfectly done, crispy on the bottom and fluffy in the middle. The sauce was spicy and rich. The cheese was always suspended in a semi-melted state without ever being greasy or rubbery.

Q didn't taste a single bite of it. He could barely go through the mechanics of chewing and swallowing, and the half-slice he managed to eat fell into his stomach like lead shot.

"Is that how he stays so thin?" Bond asked, leaning back to look across Q, sitting on the sofa between them, shoulders hunched.

John sighed and ran a hand up Q's back, rubbing gently. "Q..."

It took a long drink of Coke — _not_ whisky, despite thinking it might've helped — for him to find his voice. "No."

"Should I go?" Bond offered hesitantly.

"No," Q repeated, this time to Bond. He glanced back at John, whose fingers pressed reassuringly against his shoulder, so he turned back to Bond. "In fact, we — John and I, that is — we want you to stay. If you'd like."

Bond's brows rose, and he tipped his head to look at John. "Is he all right?"

Deliberately, Q dropped the remains of his pizza back onto his plate and sat back, catching Bond's eyes. "I'm fine. We're both fine. We... discussed this, and we want you to stay. Tonight. If you want to."

John slid closer to Q and put an arm around his shoulders. "He means _with us_, James," he explained.

He was interested. Thank god he was interested. Q could see it in the way his eyes went wide and dark and sharp. Carefully, Bond said, "I never intended to interfere."

"You aren't," Q reassured him.

"I'm _not_ going to interfere," Bond insisted. "You two — God, I've never seen two people better suited..." He trailed off, watching as John set down his pizza and stood.

"Excuse me, love," John said, brushing his fingers through Q's hair as he stepped over Q's legs to stand in front of Bond. He leaned over and moved Bond's plate and beer aside so he could sit on the corner of the coffee table. Unlike most of the furniture in their apartment, the coffee table was scratched and scored and charred in places from soldering iron accidents.

Heart pounding, Q turned, meeting John's eyes for a moment. Q was too nervous to smile, but John seemed utterly calm and confident. He leaned forward, turning to meet Bond's gaze, and said, "We would both like you to spend the night with us. We're all adults long out of uni. If you say no, that's fine. But we hope you say yes."

Slowly, questioningly, Bond turned to look into Q's eyes. The _desire_ he saw there was captivating, and he reached out to put a hand on Bond's arm. Bond had rolled up the sleeves of his casual dark blue button-down, and the feel of his forearm — impossibly strong, impossibly solid — was unimaginable. Though Q had always been eloquent, the only words he could think of were killing words. Bond was a perfect weapon, deadly and efficient, like an avenging angel, terrible and beautiful.

Then John drew Bond's attention with a touch to his jaw. Released from that electric gaze, Q took a deep, shaky breath and watched as John leaned forward, guiding Bond to do the same, though he stopped when their lips were an inch apart.

"If you want," John said quietly.

Bond pulled his arm back and tentatively took Q's hand as he closed that last inch.

Q stopped breathing all over again as he watched their kiss go from tentative to blazing in a heartbeat. John's hand moved to the back of Bond's neck, holding him still as he licked at Bond's lips. Bond's hand clenched around Q's as his mouth opened, and he made a low, intent sound, almost a growl deep in his chest.

Q had no idea how long he watched, claw-scored fingers stinging from the press of Bond's hand, but he made no effort to pull free. Slowly, he allowed himself to believe that this could work. That maybe, just maybe, they could find some way to make something unimaginably wonderful between the three of them. Something _new_.

The kiss broke, leaving a heavy, tenuous electricity crackling in the air. Q squeezed Bond's hand, meeting John's eyes for a moment. And god, he was calm and composed and not at all nervous or upset or in any way tentative. Q took heart from that, and turned to face Bond.

"Q?" Bond breathed.

Q reached towards John with his free hand. As their hands touched, Q turned back to Bond. "Yes," he whispered, and leaned forward for their first kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

Q winced at the sound of crashing glass, though he didn't look up from his laptop. His fingers were poised over the keyboard, just waiting to snatch up as many SSDs as were humanly possible the instant the US Black Friday sales opened. "What colour was that one?"

"Another red," John answered.

"Bugger, she's fast," James said, laughing. He walked over to the couch and deposited the cat on Q's legs. "Your turn."

"She's fine," Q said, watching the minutes count down. Proving the truth of his words, the cat leaped off, digging sharp claws into both his knees, and went to attack the Christmas tree once more.

"You could help," John pointed out.

"I _am_ helping. Or don't you two want computers that boot in seconds instead of over a minute?"

"Do we actually have to answer that?" James asked, going back to their losing battle.

"The bots will sweep up the glass," Q said, glad that he'd reprogrammed the swarm of vacuum cleaner robots to handle the increased load of two-and-a-half people living together. (The half-designation was James' idea, since he still spent much of his time in the field.)

John laughed. "I suppose that's your idea of helping?"

"Work smarter, not harder," Q said smugly.

In the time it took for Q to secure five SSDs at a ridiculously low price, three more ornaments were subjected to death by cat assassin. "I give up," John declared. "The cat wins. No glass ornaments."

"There are three unbroken ones," James said comfortingly.

"She's recovering her energy. Really, Q, did you _train_ her to kill?"

"I didn't have to," Q said honestly. He set his laptop aside and got off the couch a bit stiffly; he'd been shopping for the last six hours, charting the sales by a spreadsheet he'd generated for optimal tech acquisition, and his back ached.

"A natural," James said somewhat proudly, throwing his arm around Q's shoulders as he walked up to survey the disaster that was to have been their Christmas tree.

John came up on Q's other side and slid an arm around his waist. "What do you think of it?"

The tree was one of those potted natural trees meant to be replanted — or it had been, until the cat found the potting soil. Now, it was a tree on hydroponic life-support, roots protected by chicken wire. Because of the hydroponics, they couldn't have fairy lights, and because of the cat, they could have neither tinsel nor, apparently, glass ornaments. None of them actually owned any _other_ ornaments, so the tree's sum total of decorations came to three surviving glass spheres, and an assortment of plastic icicles. It was topped by a twist of multi-coloured wires that was supposedly a star, though Q doubted that MI6 explosives control wiring was traditionally used in Christmas decorations.

"It's lovely," he lied, putting his arms around his boyfriends.

"Which is his way of saying we're rubbish at domesticity," James said, looking past him at John, who nodded.

"And Christmas," John added, kissing Q's cheek.

"I can modify it into a lovely cat-climber," Q offered.

"After Christmas," John said. "At least after the Christmas party."

"God, you _still_ want to have a Christmas party?" James asked.

"It'll be fun," Q said, giving James his most hopeful puppy-dog stare. "It's our first holiday together."

"Christ," James muttered, looking away. "You're more bloody dangerous than the rest of us combined."

"That I am," Q confirmed innocently, just as there was a knock at the door. They all turned to look; James stepped away, reaching for his shoulder holster. The building had a doorman and a security system; only residents and guests could make it up the stairs to actually knock on the door, rather than buzzing the intercom.

"It _might_ be Alec," James said, looking at John and Q.

Q sighed and gestured to the door. "Go ahead"

As James stalked off towards the front door, John pulled Q around to face him. "You _are_ allowed to say the tree's a bloody disaster, love."

Though he tried to stay serious, Q couldn't quite choke back a laugh. "It's awful," he agreed, letting John pull him close. "We should have let James hire a decorator."

"It seems wrong somehow."

"Well, yes, but it would be more efficient. And I can turn this into a cat —"

"And who the bloody hell are you?" James demanded loudly.

"That's hardly your concern," an unfamiliar voice snapped back, full of contempt. Then, more loudly: _"John!"_

"No," John whispered, arms clenching around Q as his head snapped around.

Q's heart skipped; he'd never seen John truly _shocked_ before. "John? Who —"

Deathly pale, John shook his head and took hold of Q's hand, clinging to him like a lifeline. He led Q out to the foyer, where James had his weapon drawn on the tall, dark-haired man in the doorway. Tall, dark curly hair, alabaster skin, high cheekbones...

"Oh, god," Q whispered, going cold inside.

John stared at the impossible sight. His throat worked as he swallowed, hand spasming in Q's. "James," he said quietly.

James didn't look back as he asked, "John?"

"No," John said quietly, pulling Q forward. Cold rage crept into his voice as he repeated, "No!"

The man — god, it could only be _Sherlock_, Q thought — started forward, freezing only when James' gun twitched. Without ever looking at James, Sherlock spoke, calmly and expectantly: "John."

"No!" John's voice lashed out like a whip. "You — You _do not_ get to do this to me."

"John —"

_"I thought you were dead!"_

Sherlock stepped back as though he'd been struck. His expression melted into uncertainty.

"No. You don't get to just — to just sweep into my life again, like nothing ever happened — like I didn't _watch you die_." John put his free hand on James' shoulder. "Close the door."

James didn't hesitate; he closed the door on Sherlock and engaged all of the locks, only lowering his gun when the three of them were alone once more. John stepped back, and when his shoulders hit the wall, he slid down as if his strings had been cut, dragging Q down with him.

Q shot James a panicked look. James holstered his gun and knelt down at John's other side, taking his free hand. Silently, John rested his head on his bent knees, taking deep breaths.

"John? Love?" Q asked tentatively.

"Was that who I think it was?" James asked, shooting Q a quick, worried glance.

"It was." John exhaled raggedly and let his head fall back against the wall. "God. It was him."

"How?" Q asked, irrationally terrified that John would _leave_. "He's —"

"Dead." John's laugh was a broken, bloody thing that tore at Q's heart. "I don't know. I have no idea. But that was him."

"Do you want me to go after him?" James offered.

John's hands clenched, though it was a moment before he shook his head. "No. I just — I'm sorry." He opened his eyes and started to get to his feet. Q and James both followed suit, not releasing John's hands. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. Bit of a shock is all."

Q offered, "I can find out..."

John shook his head. He let go of their hands, saying, "I'm getting a drink. Anyone else?"

As John walked off towards the living room, Q looked at James, who frowned back, concerned. "I'll have one," James said, putting a comforting arm around Q's shoulders to lead him after John.

"He'll come back," John said as he poured three glasses, though Q hadn't asked for one. "When he does, I'll deal with him."

"Not alone," James said flatly, walking up to John's side to take the offered glass.

John handed a second glass to Q. Then he picked up the third and said, "Not alone."

Relieved, Q leaned close to kiss John. "Never alone."


End file.
